


Marshall of Me

by orphan_account



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-31
Updated: 2020-01-31
Packaged: 2021-02-27 09:15:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,888
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22495471
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Francis has to watch Jeanne die. Gilles decides to comfort him at his manor. . .
Relationships: France/Gilles
Kudos: 8





	Marshall of Me

**Author's Note:**

> Gilles was the Marshall of France and the first French serial killer. He would take and torture young male children. He fought beside Jeanne, although was not there for her death. He had an extravagant lifestyle and was one of the people who put the king of the throne. In this timeframe, England was canonically France's subordinate.

Flames.

They were everywhere, burning. France could only watch with widened eyes as he saw his dear Jeanne become nothing but tinder; being melted away. Her skin became charred, slowly burning black around the edges and breaking off, falling down and causing more sparks to erupt. She didn’t scream, only bow her head in silent defiance. France could only admire her as he sobbed into Gilles tunic. He had been with them since she had been chosen on that fateful day, together they had fought.

And now together they watched her die.

Gilles hand ran through the French child’s loose blonde hair as bloody tears stained his clothes. This was not the fate Jeanne deserved - his heart ached for her. And yet, something else coursed through his veins - a harsh, blackened desire.

“France, would you like to stay at my manor?”

He could only nod, tears choking his breath as he sunk down, comforted only by a familiar hold. It was not unusual for a country, especially one so young, to stay with high ranking people in their country. It was usually King Charles that he stayed with, but he was certain a messenger boy would inform the king of his visit as soon as possible to stop any worry. He'd never been to Gilles domain, not since the Siege of Orléans. He let the much older man, with straight black, shoulder length hair and matching beard, take his hand and lead him away from the smouldering cinders that were the remnants of Jeanne.

France stared up at the grandly decorated walls; paintings covering stonework where there weren't any windows as Gilles took him into his lavish domain. The carpet was red and a metal shield hung above a door, his black on yellow cross emblem cloaked in Fleur de lys. The room itself was large and well kept. His wife and children did not come out to greet them, nor was a single servant scurrying around, daring to show their mangled, wretched faces. France was rather pleased - it was the lifestyle he adored.

He skipped forward, opening the door as Gilles smiled behind him. He let it fly open, gasping with pure delight as he saw all the delicacies laid out before him - grapes, freshly picked to eat - meat, bursting to the brim with goodness. He couldn't count the different types - cow, lamb, swan, duck. Everything. He was grinning head to toe as he tied his hair up in a shiny blue ribbon, just how Jeanne had taught him, "It looks delicious," he commented excitedly to his friend, Jeanne's companion in arms. He was going to make it all better for him!

France sat down in a seat, immediately excited to tuck in. He deserved the best and Gilles led as an expensive lifestyle as France did. How could he not, when everything was fine French cuisine! He didn't even think about Jeanne as he sucked the rich taste off of his fingers, enjoying himself in the moment and what he truly deserved. He didn't want to talk or think, because something instinctive told him bad things would come of it. He wished to sit there and enjoy his meal - a proper one, something you'd have before you went out for entertainment. 

Stupid Angleterre, his unruly subordinate. Couldn't he be more like Austria's myrmidon? He sighed. This was not the first time England had kicked him in the leg trying to escape. And this time, he was refusing to let go. So be it, the scratches and wounds would not deter him. God would send someone else in place of Jeanne - 

His heart wrenched and he saw Gilles’ own eyes, which weren't filled with sorrow nor sympathy. Frances own now shone with tears that trickled down mellow cheeks. He had started to think again. France let out a sniff, wiping away the droplets and looking at the crystal patches that adorned his hands. Jeanne. She was gone, he had watched her burst into flames. And he could do nothing. She had committed a crime and he couldn't deny it, she deserved it, but something was still tearing apart his body and getting stuck in his throat. He stood up, trying to look more stoic than he felt and stomped his foot.

"I want to go to bed"

France watched as no surprise came across Gilles expression, but rather he calmly stood up and complied, offering a hand to the younger boy to assist him and lead him there. France did take his hand, relieved by the familiarity and acceptance of his demands. A narcissistic side of him said he was the country, he deserved it, but in this moment he was grateful to Gilles for everything he had done and was doing as he was tucked into lavender smelling sheets, his nose buried in them.

* * *

His wrists stung and France let out a screech of pain as the ropes dug against his skin, twisting, rasping, burning. He was tied up against a wall, only slightly lower than Gilles, forced to crane his neck upwards to look into those deep, unreadable eyes. His mouth was twisted - the ropes were twisting - into a grin he'd never seen before. A silver blade shone against pale skin and caught the light from the candles in the blackened room. It traced his bare chest, the young skin heaving as France struggled to push himself away from this monster leering towards him. It dug in, weaving itself deeper as it broke into the nocks between his ribs. His body rocked in agonising pain as a second cut landed, blood gushing from his pale skin. It was a slash this time. His body rocked in time with his screams, his throat open as he tried to pull away. His wrists didn't move. 

Blood was running down his body in rivulets now, desperately trying to clot. It stained every piece of the child’s skin, marking it as Gilles’ new claim. An exquisite royal red patina. France was left there, hyperventilating and panting like a dog as his skin stitched itself up with all the beauty of a nation. He didn't even realize his eyes were closed until he jerked his head back at the sensation of coarse fingers rutting over the healed wounds.

Manic was the only way to describe Gilles face. He was staring at him with such broken wonder that he felt like a cracked jewel. France took shuddering breaths, "Gilles. . ."

Something hot fell across his torso and it flailed his chest with such distaste he thought it was a whip. White splatters stained red, joining it to drip down onto the stone ground. He watched as the knife danced again, cutting the rope that hung him from the ceiling. He plummeted to the ground. Good, this was just a horrid nightmare caused by Angleterre -

He hit the stone hard, head lurching upwards. He saw the curve of white, the marrow on the teeth still visible. The browned skin with bulging eyes and spitting strands of hair, parts missing. He let out another scream as he was faced with a skull, half clothed with flesh. He could see the divide between bone and skin. A disgusting parallel. France retched, feeling bile rise to his throat as his stomach tried to empty itself. The stench made him gag, acid pouring into his mouth. The hands around his neck tilted upwards at a horrendous angle, forcing him to see a different sight hanging before him.

It plunged in. It was frigid, now scorching. Tears plagued his cheeks every second as he adjusted to the size, the organ stretching his behinds as the man gave in to his carnal lust, thrusting harshly. He gave in on a weeping shriek, letting his body be pounded into the cold stone. He was being filled with wild vigour, rough thrusts meeting any strength he had to crawl away and making them dissipate. He no longer cared about the cold, he only wanted to get away. His whole body was trembling - he couldn't adjust to the agony. France shook in time with his sobs and the relentless pounding behind him. His throat had welled up. He couldn't breathe if he wanted to, and scathing, salty blood soaked his tongue. He felt dizzy, barely able to feel his body as he became lost in that pained grimace. He desperately tightened - harder and harder until all he could feel was heat.

France was dropped on the floor and he tried to reach his hand out, towards the skull - would he become as ugly as that by the time this man was done with him? He was moved around again, body unwilling to fight, drenched in sweat. He could taste blood, but didn't recall when he bit his lip. He could taste something salter too and saw the black beard above him.

Gilles.

He could barely stay conscious as he took a breath, it leaving as a whimper. The bloody knife was above him and the man was pressing his head back. The weapon dug into his throat, causing a gorge of crimson to flood out to silence his screams. He felt sick as he felt it twisting around, digging under the flesh and pushing upwards to pull him apart. He was sparked with pain and he felt something pressing up against his bloodied and brusque and bruised lips. They were forced open. Water dropped in and he gulped it down desperately.

Large hands cupped his jaws. He was forced to look at blurry brown eyes. 

"I was only playing. It was only a game, Francis. You're okay. It was only a bit of fun."

He listened. His mind had long since gone. This was Gilles. He trusted Gilles, his friend, Jeanne's most trusted companion. He must not have mean tit. He couldn't have. It was just a demon causing him too.

"You're not hurt. It was just a small play."

He wanted to believe it badly. So badly. He suckled on the words like a baby. They made him sick to his stomach. There was a pleasant weight on it as Gilles body pressed down on him, the wound covering the floor in patterns made of rubies. His vision was fading. Someone was stroking his jaw, touching his body.

He opened his eyes. Green eyes met his own, filled with tears and worry. He was so small. They were clouded with grief. Oh, was Angleterre screaming? He couldn't hear it, but he heard his lips moving as he buried his head in his chest. His own was heaving, his little ribs visible through his tight shirt. He'd always looked good cloaked in red.. patches? Merde. Was Angleterre injured?

".. 8 years. You've been gone eight years. God damn it, France. Do you know how worried I was?"

Angleterre had grown. He no longer had completely cherub cheeks, even if freckles still coated them. His forehead was wrinkled. He reached up a hand. He saw it. If he recalled, his hands never trembles. He stroked Arthur's fair locks of hair away. 

"No. You broke free."

"You didn't hold me back"

He closed with eyes with a sigh. When he opened them, it was deeper forest green eyes and long blonde hair. He dropped his cigarette off the balcony.

"I'm sorry Cher, I don't bottom"


End file.
